I’m up on the catwalk, getting an overview of the action when The Phantom of My Blog comes up behind me and nudges me over the edge. I grab hold of a rope in the fly system. Not being much for rope climbing, I slide rapidly down to the knot at the end and get rope burn on the palms of my hands. At the end of my rope, I determine I have to let go and fall where I may….

I seem to have landed amidst of a heap of backdrops. It’s hard to know which scene I’m in, what my role is; moreover, when I recite my lines, my audience does not comprehend. I think I am speaking English to an English-speaking audience. I recognize the futility of becoming the director of my own play; I’ve made one hundred false starts, to quote F. Scott Fitzgerald, always interrupted by a change in scene.

And so it begins. The Phantom has made himself known. Do I trust him? I never know what he’s going to get up to. Will he help or pull the magic carpet out from under me? He is rather odd. And his appearance nondescript. Yet, he’s one of a handful, yay, less than a handful of those with whom I can discuss esoteric subjects extensively and deeply, someone who reads and takes interest in our ephemeral and enduring phenomena, the physics of those; he loves music and he transcends age, time and space in relationships. He shines a spotlight on my divertissements, calls me out on stuff. Not quite sure what all this says about me, but, you know….


Samantha Mozart
July 6, 2023